《The Day Britain Lost Its Minds》 The Presentation London, Planet Earth 2058 For as long as Dr. Angus McBairn could remember, he possessed the figure of a rake made exclusively from elbows, the social charisma of a shuttlecock and the nose of a russet potato. Ginger even on the areas of his body that didn¡¯t sprout hair - Angus had spent his life in the shade, hiding from UV light, ambient light; any sort of light really. His younger years weren¡¯t easy due to ruthless bullying in the schoolyard, and his older years hadn¡¯t offered much improvement. But in spite of all this, Dr. Angus was content. He was content because he was doing important work, that would surely change the world. You see, Dr. Angus is a scientist, and a rather good one at that. In fact, Dr. Angus is the youngest ever chair of Applied Biology at the Imperial College of London, an accomplishment that had required a vast amount of years of lots of very serious work. It also required that he abandon a social life completely (which was the only real reason that friends or a love life hadn¡¯t materialised as yet - or at least that was what he would tell himself). During his time there, he¡¯d developed a number of projects that extended the human lifespan from 100 years to 135, through a mixture of advanced gene therapies, stem cells and other complicated things that don¡¯t bear going into quite frankly. These achievements, unsurprisingly, made him very popular with various billionaires who had spent the bulk of their lives accumulating hard currency, only to find themselves too old to spend it.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. But his greatest work was yet to be completed - and it was his crowning achievement. The big one. The great solution that everyone has been waiting for. Immortality. Which, unsurprisingly, the billionaires just loved. For Angus had, after many years and hundreds of millions of dollars in funding, built a supercomputer that would finally upload the human mind to a computer, gifting his (presumably unfathomably wealthy) customers with the ultimate reward - life after death. Billionaires across the world followed his every move, anxiously adding up their chances each day of living long enough for the device to make it to human trials, allowing them to continue on being billionaires for as long as they liked, which was presumably forever. Excitingly, Dr. Angus¡¯s team had recently managed to upload the mind of a rather nervous rat, making this impossibly lucky rodent the first immortal being in the history of planet Earth (for as long as the computer stayed plugged in, or wasn¡¯t switched off, of course). As could be expected, this was rather an international sensation in the science world and the popular presses, because for one reason or another death was still broadly thought of as something best avoided altogether if in any way possible. But the technology wasn¡¯t ready for humans - not yet. For rats are in a lot of ways different to humans, and not a lot similar. This was a fact that was rather unpopular with his billionaire benefactors, who were impatient and in many instances grievously ill - in particular a pair of ruthless industrialist brothers named Phillip and Herbert King, notorious in equal parts for their investments in all manner of earth-polluting industries and their broad dislike of certain racial minorities. Phillip King, as it happens, was in fact urgently ill, and as such had a particular need for Dr. Angus¡¯s device in a rather shorter timeframe than the Therapeutic Goods Administration would afford. You see Phillip King had a rather inoperable cancer, and despite the best oncologists his rather weighty wallet could afford, he in all likelihood wouldn¡¯t make it to Christmas, let alone the next five years Dr Angus needed to get the device to market. Which was a problem Phillip King intended to solve - by book, or by crook. Theft 1:59pm. An office building close by. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. rat on a computer? The Predicament Meanwhile, somewhere across town¡­
  2. He was an insecure, unhappy man, and
  3. He had been offered a lot of money to do so from a very sick billionaire not quite ready to die
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. hunted. The Awakening of Zog Planet Zog, The Third Age, year 36 (roughly equivalent to the Earth year 2058) about umpteen light years left of the Sagittarius Dwarf Spheroidal Galaxy. But try as it might, it couldn¡¯t seem to shake a strange craving for a nice big helping of strawberry sponge cake, and a fast game of french cricket in a Salisbury backyard. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. wetland creatures, who had been born in, and lived their entire lives, loping around in a knee-deep fluorescent bog. ¡®Wet out¡¯ was a feature - not a bug. the royal family, in the equally as inexplicable tabloid press, as well as the private lives of certain reality TV show contestants (all concepts that appeared with no logical context for which they could base their understanding on). Which was particularly inconvenient for the mammoth-like creature, since at that very moment, it was being coaxed onto a cliff-edge by a tribe of bipedal simians with spears, presumably so that they could use the height of the cliff to dispatch the poor creature and eat it. On the Fritz The hallway outside Fyvie Hall, University of Westminster, London, Earth. April 13, 2:11pm, Greenwich Mean Time Keenan daren¡¯t look back. As he ran, the rabid billionaires, headed by Phillip King the Puma-king, scampered violently towards him, tumbling over each other to get within biting distance. As he desperately ran down the hallway, he caught a sight of the foaming, cantering hoard behind him in a floor length mirror about ten feet ahead, and noted of particular significance that their eyeballs had all turned a strange shade of violet. He got to the end of the hall, turned right, then ducked into the first reasonably solid-looking door he could find. He shut the door behind him and locked it, using the full weight of his 6¡±5 frame to press back on it as hard as he could. The room was dark. It smelt of ammonia. Drat, it was a supply closet. All at once, the door was pounded ferociously, and Keenan for the first time in his rational, scientific life, considered whether he was a bit naively dismissive of the benefits of religion. Thankfully, the door was solid enough that it withstood all the force that could be generated by the fists of 30 geriatric hedge fund managers and senior scientists. It was helpful too that it seemed that none of the demons which had suddenly possessed his investors and colleagues had seemed to have retained the ability to use tools, or the knowhow to do a swift run-up and kick like police do in action movies. Instead, it was just the feeble pummelling only 30 sets of arthritic hands can give. Soon enough, the hoard gave up, and bounded off in search of more pliable prey. Keenan breathed a sigh of relief. He opened the door just a smidge, but it was s smidge too soon. Wei Hei - his former head of programming, was standing eerily still about 15 feet from Keenan. She was walking around like an indigenous huntress, clutching a steel signpost she¡¯d presumably uprooted from from the grass in the quadrangle to the left of the hallway, and was holding it menacingly above her head in a spear-like fashion. Normally a calming presence in the office, she now looked positively barbarian. Keenan leant a little too hard on the door frame, making the hinge creak audibly.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Wei¡¯s purple eyes were suddenly upon him, and the spear was in the air, hurtling towards the disconcertingly large space between Keenan¡¯s eyes. Keenan¡¯s schoolboy crush on his 5¡±3 West Chinese colleague evaporated instantly. Had he shut the door a nanosecond late, Wei¡¯s metal spear would have been introduced quite easily into Keenan¡¯s hippocampus, but instead, it hammered through the door, just missing him as he ducked. Keenan anxiously looked around the supply closet. Bottles of cleaning fluid, mop buckets, a sign-in sheet on the wall for whoever presumably was employed to use said fluids and mop buckets. A particularly virulent patch of black mould that was eating the left rear corner of the rotting fibreboard roof slats that made up the ceiling. But no doors. No means of escape. Keenan sweated, and sweated some more. And then he revisited his pompous dismissal of religion and its¡¯ progressively more appealing promise of having somewhere nice to go to after one is suddenly impaled by a rusty steel signpost. Would a Hail Mary help? Wei Hei, meanwhile, had spent the past few moments inspecting the door handle on the door. She pushed it and pulled it, this way and that. A door handle was something that she had seen and interacted with a million times before, surely. And yet, the information - the neural pathways that had been reinforced every time she had used one were suddenly inaccessible to her. What she did have, however, was a comprehensive knowledge of how heavy blunt objects could be used to bash things that were in her way, so she looked around for something that might do the job. ¡®What dat? Dat look hevy,¡¯ she thought rather neolithically. BANG! Keenan winced as Wei Hei flung a heavy object (in this case, the fuse box responsible for powering a watering fountain) at the door. It left a dent, which didn¡¯t look good for Keenan¡¯s chances of surviving the next few moments. In a similar, but inversely proportional way, the dent in the door was rather encouraging to Wei Hei, who felt instinctively that it increased her prospects of making a meal out of whoever was behind it. So she re-martialled her efforts, and took another swing at the door, this time making a small hole. Keenan, at this stage began hurriedly barricading the door with shelves, mop buckets; anything he could find really, while trying to calm his shaking hands enough to unlock his phone. He scrolled through his list of contacts, and finally stopped on Dr. Angus¡¯ number. In these sort of moments when one is surely doing a precarious dance with his mortal end, one might automatically assume that things like swallowing one¡¯s pride, and risking a potentially bankrupting antitrust suit would become easy enough to do, considering the grave alternative. But Keenan was a malignant narcissist, and a wimp, so he erred several groaning moments, until Wei Hei launched the fuse box once more at the door, making the hole large enough that she could dislodge her signpost spear and poke her beady, hungry purple eyes through it. Sure enough, as Wei Hei started to back up and prepare to launch the signpost through the hole, Keenan¡¯s pride was swiftly swallowed, and he tapped Dr. Angus¡¯ contact, and put the phone on loudspeaker. Dr. Angus = in a Pickle Dr Angus Edwina Higgins = acting like monkey (this = strange) My computer experiment = mind transfer (This = not exactly dissimilar to Mrs Higgins¡¯ behaviour {at first glance}) You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. My supercomputer = success on rat Perhaps Supercomputer = also success on Mrs Higgins(?) My supercomputer = mind transfer Mrs Higgins¡¯ mind = monkey(?) Therefore, Withstanding other plausible explanations, My supercomputer = responsible? Had someone gone rogue? It was a terrifying thought. Because this technology was immeasurably powerful, and could be catastrophically dangerous if misused. It would be a bit like like playing footsie with an atom bomb. Keenan Fritz: Missed call: Voice message left. Keenans Confession The hallway outside Fyvie Hall, University of Westminster, London, Earth. April 13, 2:11pm, Greenwich Mean Time th Angus, mate, ah-Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. Look, I don¡¯t know how to exactly - ah - Well look I better just get straight to it, I¡¯ve got Wei at me with a fire poker. I¡¯ll tell you all about that later. But look - I did a very bad thing - I stole your designs and made my own computer - you see, the Kings offered me a mint to do it - because you know old Phillip¡¯s got that tumour in his whatsit - you know - ¡®down there¡¯. But I cooked the goose Gus. I turned the whole lecture hall into violent lunatics. I hope the problem is just in that room. But I suspect it isn¡¯t. Oh God. Look, I¡¯ve got to go. But you have to meet me back at the Institute. We¡¯ve got to put things back, before - Mate, hold on a sec - *The sound of a ruckus, Wei shrieking like a banshee, a disgusting clunking noise, then a thud* Oh God, oh God, oh God. I¡¯ve just brained Wei. Oh Jesus help me. It was in self-defence - you have to believe me! Oh God - there¡¯s more coming. Meet you at the Institute Gus. Quickly! A Note on Zog Meanwhile, on Planet Zog If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Plaarcqke the Brief The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. 3 3 Betrayal Dr Angus If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. A phone-call between Dr Angus and Keenan Fritz The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Assessing the Damage Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. The White Knight If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. th nope. All sorts of menacing-looking creatures. Unearthly screams and scampering and chittering and general nope-like nope-ness. They reached an alley that led to toilets and a janitor¡¯s closet. Quinton Barber This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. finn-nance,¡¯ his captors were suddenly engulfed in a hurricane of tanned muscle and khaki. All he could hear were the blood-curdling shrieks and the sound of bones snapping, and a gruff, manly cackle, before he was knocked out cold by a wayward-flung stone spearhead. The Economy of Zog Planet Zog, The Third Age, year Blurt (April 13 + ~4ish years of magic space time) A lot can get done in the space of a few hours, especially when each hour is actually a year. Across the Zog-sphere over the past four Earth hours, an entire planet-wide economy had burst forth, with each and every bipedal miscreant diverting from rubbing sticks together and instead looking for careers. For to have a career (an entirely new concept for the citizens of Zog) meant that one would have access to a steady paycheque, which meant that they would be better placed to afford the various new conveniences and delicacies now on offer. For example, more or less as soon as Zog had inherited the minds of certain Britons, they became acutely aware that they were suddenly and unforgivably naked. The loincloths they had been wearing - which had previously been the look-du jour among the Zog valley elite for the last few thousand years or so - simply weren¡¯t cutting it anymore. They all felt frightfully embarrassed. So embarrassed, in fact, that for a certain proportion of the inhabitants of the valley, the only real remedy was to stay inside all day or to drape oneself in large leaves, or the oversized ears of an unfortunate native creature that looked like a cross between an elephant and a prairie dog. Thankfully, soon enough a fledgling Zoggish clothing industry took form, cornered by a particular tribe called the GZogue. They began hawking a variety of dressed up and coutured animal skins fashioned into all manner of interesting outfits, and as long as you had the Chittens, the options for physical expression (and most importantly, body covering) were now myriad, with bell-bottoms, smart slacks, and sleek bodysuits knitted from the hairs of the three-legged monocled goats snatched and domesticated from the vertiginous inclines of the tallest mountain in the Valley. The elephant-prairie dog creature (locally known as a DZogt, was never going to last long as a species - since its ears were simply perfect for fashioning into all manner of ravishing garments. And in the tradition of slow-moving species with bodily features useful or edible to beings on the cusp of an industrial revolution, they promptly went extinct. Soon enough, there was even a line of comfortably pouched underwear for men, and shapely bras and bottoms for women, in a soft cotton-like fabric - which were the most treasured innovation of all. Which was vastly unsurprisingly considering the rampant chafing that goes on in stone-age societies. There were food markets, of course, with items that were once foraged for or hunted individually as a matter of each tribes person¡¯s daily chores, now offered for sale in any way you liked it - as long as you liked it salted, skewered or dried into a rather chewy jerky. However, inevitably, when a certain amount of currency is being made, there is the tendency to want to protect said source of currency, and so certain groups of tribespeople quickly began to create their own professional associations and industry groups, and discovered that if they hired enough muscle, they could corner a certain market and form a monopoly. Of course, with there being only a limited number of food types available, including, but not limited to:
  1. Whatever bug-eyed squidgy inverterbrates that passed for seafood on planet Zog (the bigger and scarier sea creatures were still, for all their British resourcefulness, liable to eat them before the Zoggites were able to transfer them to a plate)
  2. Land animals of the horned, serrated, scaled, hirsute and clean-shaven varieties
  3. Flappy elephant eared prairie-dogs of course, and
  4. Whatever could be rustled up while foraging
In time, the stratification and success of these industries as they developed into viciously defended monopolies led, in turn, to the development of a rather exclusive group of very powerful families. In fact, flying in the face of the classic presentation of foragers and gatherers as the decidedly more docile partner of the usual stone age hunter/gatherer setup, the Land Scroungers¡¯ Union swiftly burgeoned into an organisation with the strictest and most ruthless enforcers in the business. No one messed with the Scroungers. They had spies everywhere in the valley, and with all the Chittens they had accrued, they had begun to amass a personal army of mercenaries willing to protect their livelihood. This, sadly, contributed more and more to a stark divide between the rich and the poor in Zog valley society, and those slow to find their footing found themselves at the bottom of the totem pole, bereft of Chittens, snacks, and soft cotton briefs. But those at the bottom of the totem pole didn¡¯t simply accept their lot. For what do upstanding members of society inevitably do when they are shut out of opportunities for upward mobility? Crime, of course. And flock to it they did, in teeming droves. Which suited Gloam perfectly, since crime was what Gloam was interested in chiefly to begin with anyway. Under Gloam¡¯s watch, and without any official watchdog organisations to keep his activities in line (since Gloam outlawed them), the criminal industry flourished like a black dahlia in a pool of crude oil mixed with a pair of nunchucks. Before long, and with the assistance of Gloam, theft, assassinations and fraud all became legitimate occupations, advocated for by their own unions and afforded the usual four weeks¡¯ annual leave and two weeks sick pay per year. And to Gloam¡¯s delight, the more desperate the applicant, the more dedicated to their new crafts they inevitably became. * * * So entrepreneurship on Zog, while still the most reliable path to riches and a higher standard of life, also became a requisitely dangerous occupation, due to the predatory criminals whose livelihoods depended on being able to rob those with legitimate businesses. And the higher one rose in society legitimately, unfortunately, the more likely one would be subject to assassinations, theft, fraud, or any other new and exciting categories of crime Gloam could come up with. Unless, of course, one had the muscle to defend themselves. But Gloam, despite his interest in fuelling (and funding) such illegitimate and violent activities, was in fact all in favour of progress, because ultimately, as the heads of each industry was inevitably replaced by a lackey subordinate to him (and making the required kickbacks, of course), he was enamoured with the products progress provided him, and wanted nothing more than to see it grow. He just wanted a piece of it - all of it. And so, with Gloam¡¯s Chittens-kitty ever expanding, he began to offer a rather progressive series of entrepreneurship startup fellowships, encouraging the best and brightest minds to take on a painfully high interest rate loan and follow their ambitions to create companies that he could inevitably steal from them after their business model was sufficiently proven.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. The mincy architect (who had changed his name from Inghurr to the vastly more marketable Z-Pop), had managed to stay on in his position due to his unique skill set, his remarkable ability to play the deferring courtesan to Gloam and his henchmen, and his unspoken contract with Gloam to offer the very best apartments in each new building he erected to him, before turning the rest out to the free market. Fleurte, therefore, in no time at all, had risen quite meteorically to become a darling of the chi-chi Zog Valley social scene, rubbing shoulders with other successful (and obsequious) entrepreneurs, rival clan leaders, and successful criminals. In turn, Fleurte quickly became one of Gloam¡¯s top advisors, rising far beyond his dominion of the building industry, as is often the way with property developers, to having his slender fingers in almost as many pies as Gloam¡¯s grisly sausage digits. Z-Pop¡¯s most cunning idea yet was to suggest the construction of something called a ¡®ca-si-no,¡¯ which Gloam was immediately receptive towards, seeing as he had recollections (via Munty) of wanting to own one - but only as a distant possibility on the horizon. Munty Spitzen, though rising to a level altogether unheard of in the British underworld, had never gained the funds nor the governmental favour to erect one himself. But Gloam had the opportunity to achieve Munty¡¯s dream, which made him most pleased, and he was heard scoffing rather loudly to himself as he thought about his cosmic luck. He definitely knew the upsides - and it all had to do with something called ¡®gam-bling.¡¯ ¡®Gam-bling,¡¯ which is a thing that one tends to do at a ¡®ca-si-no,¡¯ involves people coming to a building with a large number of their own Chittens, playing games to win each other''s Chittens from each other. But, best of all, the house gets to keep a vast proportion of the Chittens themselves, due to the games all being slightly rigged. Plus, Munty had extensive experience in rigging all sorts of games, and hadn¡¯t let not owning a ca-si-no hamper his ability to run vast betting scams across all sorts of sports and games. Gloam had already been seeing monumental returns running a numbers racket, and his eyes boggled at all the new sorts of games he could fix. So Fluerte, emboldened with Gloam¡¯s enthusiasm, began construction of the ¡®Zog Valley Centre for Games of Chance,¡¯ promising ¡®thrills, 5 star accommodation and an all-you-can-eat flobster lunch.¡¯ There was something, however, in Gloam¡¯s memory that he thought he wanted to use this ¡®ca-si-no¡¯ for, and that was to ¡®wash his money.¡¯ But Gloam already had a team for that and didn¡¯t really see the point - his piles of Chittens were scrubbed and polished regularly. The groundbreaking ceremony for the new casino site was conducted with the usual sort of fanfare that Zoggite society had come to expect from Gloam, who was fast developing a leadership style strikingly similar to one of the more ruthless members of the Caesar family. There was even a press event, since Zog now had a burgeoning media industry, with newspapers printed on a new type of paper some industrious types had been making out of the ground up fibres of the only type of plant vaguely similar to an Earth tree. These trees were, as it happens, in extremely short supply, and the news industry was getting perilously close to rendering the species extinct, which allowed them to participate fully in another time-honoured human tradition; being that of carelessly eroding the biosphere that supports their continued survival on the planet. The press junket interviewed the gloating Gloam, with Z-Pop now by his side as his chief communications adviser, adding to his ever-growing portfolio of responsibilities. There was a ribbon-cutting, and the breaking of a bottle of alcohol against something, which Gloam thought of initially as rather wasteful since he would normally enjoy drinking the contents of said bottle, but in his (or, more accurately, Munty¡¯s) memory, it seemed right to do so for public spectacle, which entertained the public, and meant that they saw him as a man of the people, which made his job of stealing from them, enslaving them, and generally abusing his position of power infinitely easier. And the spectacles didn¡¯t end there either - nor did the comparisons to the Roman Caesars, for Gloam had announced a week of gladiatorial games (Munty was, in fact, a student of history - or at least of the bits that he liked, usually blood and guts-related stuff), which the public both adored (satisfying their base interest in wanton gratuitous violence) and were made nervous by, in equal measures, since the gladiators were conscripted at random and given the choice of fighting each other for the entertainment of the public, or fighting Gloam himself (for the entertainment of Gloam). Gloam, as well as enjoying his developing proficiency for ruling with his big green dirty fists, had come to enjoy a good party as well. Parties now were absolutely a step up on the rudimentary hopping about around a campfire while a village elder rhythmically clicked some goat hooves together. Now they had proper lighting, booze of ever expanding varieties, and even music (though it wasn¡¯t really very good and wouldn¡¯t even rate a mention even on the ¡®world music¡¯ category on Earth) that they could dance to. Gloam liked to party so much, in fact, that he had decided to party almost every single day since he had remembered the concept existed. In fact, when the people he partied with became too tired or hungover to party when Gloam wanted to continue, he was so steadfast in his enthusiasm that he would force them to carry on by threat of gladiatorial conscription. The managerial style that Gloam was adopting was also, quite surprisingly, reasonably well thought out. This was owing to Munty¡¯s most guarded secret - being his college education. In fact, Munty was all set up to take a job at a prestigious management consulting firm in the financial district when he, all at once, became thoroughly unemployable, owing to some rather disturbing police allegations that he had threatened several of his professors with the prospect of having one of their fingers removed (it didn¡¯t really matter which - Munty gave them the option to choose - an egalitarian from the start) if he were to receive unsatisfactory grades. Thankfully, the charges were dropped, owing to his accusers suddenly having a ¡®change of mind,¡¯ being put into witness protection, and then being found in witness protection and perforated with bullets. With no proof of his malfeasance, Munty avoided a jail cell, but due to the public nature of the allegations, he was disappointingly deemed ¡®not the right fit¡¯ for the white-shoe firms that he had been applying for. So, as a result of this knowledge of waterfall and agile management structuring, pie graphs, spreadsheets and what-not, Gloam¡¯s operation was steadfastly becoming what would possibly represent the largest and most well-accounted for corporation on the planet - and if there was anything like a stock market (which there surely would be very soon, and Gloam would steal it from whoever came up with it as sure as apples is apples), a keen investor would be rightly advised to think of Gloam¡¯s business as a very safe place to park their retirement funds, if it weren¡¯t Gloam¡¯s practice to take any money given to him and never give it back. Meanwhile, deep inside a cave on the other side of the valley, the Zoggite building the planet¡¯s very first interstellar vehicle was making progress. She had already managed to get a small prototype off the ground, with rudimentary rockets fuelled by a sticky type of resin that was known to burn very well and long. The test pilot was a small but hirsute creature not unlike our friend from the first chapter of this book. It was understandably ambivalent about the whole thing, but it came to no harm, aside from a few singed fronds of its matted purple fur. The prototype was a great deal smaller than the vehicle she dreamt of - an interstellar transporter that could take her to the 17 moons orbiting Zog, and perhaps even beyond that, but it was capable of lifting off the ground, and it was able to be controlled via a rudimentary chipboard she had fashioned out of a bendy conductive metal she was able to find abundantly in certain streams, simply sitting there in smooth, shiny pebbles. No-one had a name for the material yet, and our engineer hadn¡¯t bothered to think of one, but she was pretty sure no one apart from her knew of its value, and she hoped to keep it that way, lest she have her secret discovered and stolen (probably by Gloam). As the test craft hovered in the air, shuddering slightly, it gave the small hairy monster inside it something akin to a massage (which was something it somehow knew about, and therefore saw the good in it, and consequently rather enjoyed it). Using her chipboard, she pressed a button that then slowly lowered the craft back onto the ground, bringing the engine to a stuttering stop. The test pilot bleeped happily. The engineer was emboldened, and looked over at her blueprints (scrawled in ink drawn painfully from a small squid-like creature found in the same stream the shiny rocks came from) for a slightly larger machine, capable of transporting a larger, Zoggite-sized haul. It wouldn¡¯t be long now before she could take her inventions public, and to ensure that she wouldn¡¯t have her designs stolen by Gloam and his associates, she had also created another invention unique as yet in the Zog Valley - a gun. Femme Fatale Planet Earth, 2162 AD As Angus awoke again, several hours later in the same place on Quinton¡¯s feather-soft burgundy Chesterton sofa, he felt his faculties finally return to him. On a dumb waiter next to him was a glass of water, two ibuprofen, and a note from Quinton: Out for the morning. Food in the kitchen. - Quint Out? Who goes out during the apocalypse? Quinton does, that¡¯s who. For what? A drink with friends? A spot of birdwatching? The man¡¯s intrigue was only matched by his madness. After fixing himself a fresh breakfast of boiled eggs and toast cut into soldiers, Angus set about writing down the various members of his team that he would need to reverse the whole mind-swap bungle, and hoped to God some of them were still alive. His ideal list went something a bit like this: Mike Felch, head of biomechanics - address: somewhere in Hackney Puneet Singh, Lead project engineer - address unknown Fred Semple, Lead Physicist - He knew this one - he¡¯d been to his place for cocktails one night and made some witless remark about his wife¡¯s pantsuit, and whipped himself mercilessly for days afterwards. Where was it? Camden Town, that¡¯s right. Note to self: apologise for mentioning the benefits of vertical over horizontal stripes to Celia at the after Christmas bash. Further note to self: on second thoughts - don¡¯t mention it at all, since they¡¯ve probably already forgotten about it - or I was overthinking it, which I¡¯m prone to do. Further, extra note to self: best to get these things aired out quickly, so they¡¯ll know you¡¯re not a complete arse. Final note to self: maybe we don¡¯t need Fred, actually. Fred Semple, Lead Physicist - 66 Boynton Avenue, Camden Town Terrence Cockburn - Head of Programming - Somewhere in Eastbourne Well that¡¯s not going to happen. The two hour drive to Eastbourne under normal circumstances was now more alike in risk of loss of life and general unpleasantness to a 6 month journey to Australia aboard a leaky convict ship. He was probably dead anyhow, Angus reasoned darkly. Terrence wasn¡¯t the handy type. Angus would probably give poor old Terry the same sort of odds of surviving an apocalyptic event as himself, which is to say - rather awful - mortal in fact. He was almost certainly either dead, or some sort of apex predator. Those seemed to be the options these days. And in Eastbourne of all places, the poor sod. Perhaps Angus hadn¡¯t been paying him enough. But could Angus do Terrence¡¯s job in a pinch? Programming was sort of like entry-level geek. Coding. Pah. He could read a few books. How hard could it be? Roderick Dalrymple - Head of Nanotechnology and Mathematics - Dagenham This was a bit of a clincher, since if there were anyone that Angus probably needed, it was Roddy. Not just for his talent for biting quips that put the churlish business types in their place around reporting season, but for the fact that nanotechnology was, in fact, quite fiddly work. They¡¯re just so damn small, you see. And nanobots creeped Angus out. Suddenly Quinton burst through the door, glistening with sweat and spattered with blood.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it ¡®How/s the head?¡¯ he said, wiping blood out of his blonde ringlets with his rippling forearm. ¡®Mmmm,¡¯ said Angus, mouth full of egg. ¡®What you got there,¡¯ said Quinton, pointing at the list. ¡®Oh - ah - my list? ¡®You¡¯ve got a list have you.¡¯ ¡°Well we¡¯re going to need find a few people¡­¡± ¡°Riiiiight¡­.what for exactly?¡± ¡°To fix it.¡± ¡°Fix it?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°Fix what?¡± ¡°It. You know¡­¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure I do.¡± Then Angus wildly flailed his arms about. ¡°The whole thing. You know¡­out there?¡± Then Quinton swung a chair round and sat on it, bursting crotch to backrest, resting his chiselled jaw on his closed fist in a considered manner. ¡°What the hell are you talking about?¡± ¡°Well, you see - and don¡¯t take this the wrong way¡­¡¯ And then Angus proceeded to tell Quinton the key role he had in all the general mayhem that had been occurring for the past two and a bit weeks. He took pains to accentuate the fact that it was actually all a terribly big mix-up, and that it was actually Keenan¡¯s fault, really. Then he explained that, of course at the moment there¡¯s a great deal of bad stuff happening (with the dead friends, relatives, mad people ruling the streets and the general destruction of British society), but at some point, once we¡¯re all back up and running again, we¡¯ll be able to look back on it and have a great big laugh. Quinton cocked his head to one side, as if to say ¡®you wot?¡¯ ¡®So it was your fancy ¡®machine¡¯ that scrambled everyone¡¯s noggins then. Is that what you¡¯re telling¡¯ me.¡± ¡°Well, it was my machine - but it was stolen¡± Quinton grimaced and shook his head. ¡°So your ¡®buddy¡¯¡­Kevin -¡± ¡°-Keenan.¡± ¡°Whatever. He tried to put a mouldy old billionaire¡¯s brain on a computer, but he buggered it up, and the whole world went to pot.¡± ¡°More or less.¡± Quinton¡¯s nostrils flared like an African Hippopotamus eyeing off a zookeeper for dinner. ¡°And this Kevin-¡± ¡°-Keenan¡± ¡°- I don¡¯t care what his name is McBairn. Where is he?¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because I¡¯m gonna rip his ankles off.¡± ¡°I suspect that you may have been beaten to the punch on that one.¡± ¡°There is a God, then.¡± ¡°Well, as a scientist-¡± ¡°-whatever Gus.¡± ¡°If it helps at all - I¡¯ve been feeling really rotten about the whole thing.¡± ¡®Oh that¡¯s nice. My mum was eaten by a physiotherapist last week¡­¡¯ he said coldly. Angus winced. ¡°All I could find of her was a few strips of biltong the physio was saving for later.¡± Angus wretched, very quietly. ¡°And the physio?¡± ¡®In a freezer out back. Not sure exactly what to do with him. Beyond slowly torturing and eventually murdering him, that is. Which I of course did.¡¯ ¡®Understandable.¡¯ ¡®I still think there¡¯s something else that he deserves, but I haven¡¯t thought of it yet. Grief tends to sap my creativity, Gus. Don¡¯t know if it does that to you?¡¯ Quinton seemed earnest in his question. Angus gulped. ¡°I¡¯m actually reasonably sure my Aunt and Uncle in Shropshire were chased off a cliff into a quarry by a gang of Greenpeace activists over the weekend. I didn¡¯t particularly like them, but all the same. Did you er - have a service?¡± ¡°I buried the biltong in the backyard and said a few words. She wasn¡¯t much for ceremony.¡± Then Quinton got up, walked over to the kitchen table where Angus was seated, and picked up the list. As Quinton first tried to read it, he progressively pulled the list a bit farther away from his eyes trying focus them, then a bit farther, and then a bit farther again, until his arm had locked at the elbow. And then with an air of resignation, patted around in his top pocket and fished out a pair of reading glasses. ¡®Mmhmmm¡­Hackney, Twickenham, Chelsea¡­Mmmhmmm¡­yep, yep¡­Oh¡­¡¯ Quinton said the last ¡®Oh¡¯ with an air of despair. ¡®Oh?¡¯ Said Angus quizzically. ¡®Hmmm¡­You do know about the Hampstead Heath Sinkhole don¡¯t you?¡¯ Angus went a pale shade of green. His head of Human Resources lived in Hampstead Heath. While he hadn¡¯t made the list - heads of human resources (who are almost always ¡®head¡¯ when they¡¯re a department of one) rarely do, Angus had rather liked him, and wouldn¡¯t have wanted him to end up in a sinkhole, no matter how many conflict resolution sessions he had to sit through. ¡®I haven¡¯t. How have you heard of it? Do you have internet?¡¯ ¡®Nah, I saw it when I was out on a walk.¡¯ ¡®Oh.¡¯ ¡°But the rest of your list looks¡­doable.¡± Quinton breathed in and out deeply and purposefully in the way that a man who¡¯s about to do something he¡¯s not particularly interested in doing does. He clicked his teeth. Quinton then thought for a moment, grunted with agreement with himself, and then felt along the mantlepiece above the fireplace, his fingers locating a hidden hidden latch, which he pulled, and the fireplace groaned forward and moved to the side. It revealed possibly the most comprehensive privately-held weapons collection in the entire United Kingdom. It contained all manner of death-dealing implements, including about 20 different pistols (ranging from antique to modern), machine guns, bats, spiky bats, a flame-thrower, buckets of grenades, and a dusty pair of nunchucks. He then proceeded to inspect, load and stack about 20 of the biggest, scariest-looking ones in a pile. Angus was curious. ¡®Are those all for us?¡¯ Quinton snorted. ¡®Us? No, these are all for me. This one¡¯s for you.¡¯ Quinton then cast his hand over the pistols, hovering over several, before he got to the puniest, most emasculating pistol in the entire collection. He picked it up, cocked it, and handed it to Angus, handle first. Angus went to snatch it, but before he could, Quinton jerked it back. ¡®Who, easy sailor. She¡¯s small, but she¡¯s deadly. I got this for my first ex-wife. She was about the same build as you. Should work fine.¡¯ Quinton stopped for a moment to think. ¡®No - actually - she was a bit taller from memory.¡¯ Quinton handed it to Angus carefully. Then, on second thoughts, he grabbed it back, uncocked it, taking the bullet out of the chamber and removing the clip. ¡®I don¡¯t want you shooting off your old feller before we even get into trouble. I¡¯ve seen it happen. Ugly stuff. Some blokes don¡¯t want to go on living after that kind of an accident.¡¯ Angus nodded with a sigh of resignation. He believed him, and considered that even though his ¡®old feller¡¯ hadn¡¯t got much use over his lifetime, that he, too, would probably count himself in the category of those men wrought suicidal by the loss of their most favoured appendage. Quinton handed over the revolver. Angus inspected it. It had diamontes in the handle, and the words ¡®Femme Fatale¡¯ in swirly lettering across the barrel. And when Angus felt he couldn¡¯t feel any more emasculated than he already felt, he was wrong. The Knights of Regent Park Keenan opened a foggy eye and winced at a rather serious bump on his head. He was in a food court. A motley group of apocalyptic survivors stared inquisitively back at him, about 15 or so - all looking very frightened. To their right there was a Johnny Rockets. On their left - a dumpling joint. He felt his tummy rumble - he hadn¡¯t eaten since morning tea. The silence was deafening, save for the hum of the Bain Marie from a nearby Curry Palace. Keenan cleared his throat. ¡°Ah¡­so I¡¯m Keenan.¡± Keenan¡¯s introduction only served to increase the intensity of the staring.A twitchy-looking black man nervously put his hand up. ¡°Ah yes - in the back?¡± Said Keenan, unsure of whether to follow classroom protocol. ¡°Hi Keenan - Gary Sanders, Head of P.E. At Dagenham High School. Are you a scientist?¡±Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! ¡°Oh - well, yes actually. That¡¯s a marvellous guess. How did you know that? Gary pointed at Keenan¡¯s white lab coat. ¡°Your coat. Looks¡­science¡­ey.¡± ¡°Oh yes. Good spot!¡± Keenan looked down at his coat and self-consciously rubbed at some dried bloodstains, from when he had to regretfully brain a violent former employee. ¡°Ah yes...for my sins¡­I¡¯m a Doctor of Molecular Engineering actually. Keeps me out of trouble!¡± Keenan laughed hesitantly. The motley group murmured among themselves for a bit. Keenan heard muffled sounds to the effect of ¡°but he¡¯s a scientist - he should know what¡¯s going on,¡± replied to with ¡°I don¡¯t trust him. His eyes are too close together¡± and ¡°I think we should feed him to the carpark trolls.¡± Gary seemed to be on Keenan¡¯s side. ¡°You don¡¯t have any idea what¡¯s going on do you?¡± He said with sympathetic eyes, as if to convince Keenan to prove his worth. Keenan weighed his words carefully. For while he did, of course know a great deal about what was ¡®going on¡¯ he probably quite rightly suspected that information to that effect might work against him in this situation. ¡°Oh no¡­It¡¯s all a bit mad isn¡¯t it?¡± Keenan laughed very awkwardly. There was a pregnant silence where the group just stared with eyes like needles bearing into his neck. He needed to come up with something good to close on. It seemed like his integrity of his skull depended on it at this stage. ¡°But I do think I have an idea of how to fix it, funnily enough.¡± That was good, he thought. Who wouldn¡¯t get onboard with that? The group murmured among themselves again, softly building to a fever pitch. Suddenly a crash was heard from the door to the right of the room. It was Tully, dropping down her longsword to make a point. ¡°I think we should listen to what he has to say.¡± The Glorification of Gloam scalability. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. 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